


nine years in

by fluffysfics



Series: the most infuriating seventy seven years of his life [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: But only briefly mentioned, Depression, F/M, Hopeful Ending, feat. a cameo from a character who is no one’s favourite, period typical racism, the 1950s, the Master’s time on Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29440398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: On a quiet early morning in London, 1953, the Master decides to go for a walk.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: the most infuriating seventy seven years of his life [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147559
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	nine years in

_“It’s a big universe, O. So much bigger than just this one planet. I could show you so much, if you wanted.”_

_“We could see every star together, Doctor. I think I’d like that, some day.”_

_“Mm... I had another friend who said that to me once. Well, I say friend. He was more like a toy. Bored of him now- he was always worthless. Useless, compared to me. Weren’t you, Koschei?”_

The Master wakes with a jolt of half-surprised hurt, his next breath coming out in a painful shudder. It’s June, and his top floor flat is objectively baking hot thanks to 1950s Earth’s truly _awful_ insulation, but he feels cold right down to his bones. 

He’s lost count of the number of times he’s had that dream. It’s not always set during their night on the outback- sometimes it’s a text conversation. Sometimes he’s Professor Yana, or any one of his poorly-conceived disguises from his younger years. Always, he’s someone that the Doctor has taken a shine to. 

And always, the dream ends with those golden eyes drilling right into his soul as she tells him what filth he is compared to her. 

He curls up tighter, scrubbing a tear from his cheek. It’s been nine years since Paris, and every second since then has felt like another weight added to his shoulders. Already, it feels nearly impossible to get out of bed. Another decade or so, and perhaps he’ll just melt into the floor, never to be seen again. It’s not like anyone here would miss him. 

Forcing his eyes back open, the Master blinks at the clock next to his bed. It’s 5:30 in the morning. Dawn is breaking; he can see it through the cheap patterned curtains covering the window. Marshalling all of his strength, he grits his teeth, pushes the covers back, and stands up. 

It’s tempting to slump straight back into bed. Instead, he forces his feet to walk him to the window, raises his shaking arms to shoulder height, and shoves open the curtains. 

London is deserted. 

It’s such an odd sight that it takes him a moment to process, brain momentarily expecting the usual bustling crowds of the early morning. _Oh_. Maybe...maybe something interesting is finally happening, he thinks, fumbling for his bedside table, fingers wrapping around his TCE. This is an _electric_ concept after so many years of monotony. He’s already dressed; all he needs is shoes, maybe a comb, and then he can go and _do_ something for the first time in _so_ long. 

The Master makes it halfway through putting his second shoe on before he remembers. Yesterday was the queen’s coronation; everyone is just in bed after their parties. They’d even kept him up last night, and somehow he’d forgotten in his excitement at the thought of something being _different_. 

Suddenly deflated, he slumps, head knocking against the nearest wall. His neighbour takes it upon himself to thump back and swear at him in a rough, grumbly voice, sounding mostly asleep. 

It would be so satisfying to go next door and shrink his neighbour down to the size of a child’s doll. But he’s done that before, and it inevitably ends with him having to run. Law enforcement officials are so annoyingly good at their jobs these days. And as much as he’d like to hypnotise the entire Metropolitan Police Force, he’s not sure that he has the energy. 

The Master toys with his TCE, rubbing his thumb across the gold loop at the top. 

“Least I’ve still got you, hm? Even if it’s bloody hard to use you without getting caught.” He sighs, deep and sad and hollow. 

The TCE, funnily enough, does not have anything comforting to say in return. 

He sits there in silence for another fifteen minutes, watching the sun slowly rising, before his slumped position starts to make his neck hurt. 

Maybe he should go for a walk. 

It’s something the Master tends to avoid, because 1953 is not a great time to look like he does in England, and he is constantly exhausted by humans anyway. But the streets are so quiet now- it’s not likely that he‘ll run into any trouble. 

He slips his second shoe the rest of the way on, tucks his TCE safely back where it belongs, and runs a hand through his hair. He looks...still pretty terrible. But in a passable sort of way. 

Ten long flights of stairs later, he’s stepping out onto the streets for the first time in several weeks. There’s still a faint, lingering coolness in the air- it’s _lovely_ , after the stuffy heat of inside. The Master takes a deep breath, and feels a little bit more like a person. Just a little. 

Almost no one is outside- none of the usual harried commuters running to the nearest Underground station, no one selling newspapers or emptying bins or going for a stroll. Except him. 

If the planet was like this for the next sixty-eight years, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, the Master thinks to himself. Quiet and calm, giving him some space to _think_ for what feels like the first time in months. 

And he’s got a lot to think about, honestly. He always does, but he never gets the chance to, because of _her_. The Doctor never leaves his mind; as hard as he tries to rid himself of her, she’s there in the flash of blonde hair he sees on a stranger, the swish of someone’s blue coat, a hint of a smile. 

Here, in the quiet streets of London, there is nothing to remind him of her. He can think, and plan, and relax. It’s _peaceful_. 

At least, it’s peaceful until he turns a corner and comes across a middle-aged man sprawled on the floor, mumbling drunkenly. The words aren’t particularly clear, but the Master makes out ‘mother in law’, and ‘bloody doctor’. 

There’s every chance that it’s nothing. Every chance that he’s talking about an actual doctor, and not _his_ Doctor. There’s no reason for this random drunk to know the Doctor. And even if this random drunk _does_ know the Doctor, it’s in the Master’s best interests not to pry. 

Unfortunately, the Master has never been one to follow what’s in his best interests. He stops walking. 

“Did you say _the Doctor_?” 

The man quiets in his rambling, and squints up at the Master. He’s an unpleasant looking fellow- ridiculous moustache, and beady eyes devoid of anything except suspicion. He grumbles a few things that are probably slurs, and rolls over. 

Well, now it’s personal. The Master gives him a good hard kick. The drunk rockets up into a sitting position, clutching his side. 

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, you—“

“Shut your mouth,” the Master snaps coldly, in no mood to deal with another barrage of insults. The force behind his words is strong enough that the man obeys _instantly_ , and he feels just a little rush of power from being able to do that. Silence someone with just his words. He’ll take whatever thrills he can get, these days. “You mentioned the Doctor. Are you talking about a medical doctor? Some kind of academic?” 

“I’ll be dammed if I know,” the drunken man slurs. “Bloody...tall fella. Nice suit, but strange shoes. Had a blonde lass with ‘im. Bloody mother in law had no bloody face, now I don’t have a bloody _house_...” 

A chill runs right down his spine. The Master couldn’t care less about faceless old women, but the _Doctor_ being _here_ \- that’s news. News that makes him feel...sick. Angry. _Desperate_. He grits his teeth- keeping his cool now is nigh on impossible, but he needs more information before his rage makes him do anything stupid. 

“Where did he go? Is he still here?”

The drunk sneers at him. “How should I know?” 

Scowling, the Master drops to his knees, grabbing the man’s head in both hands. Fingers pressing hard against his temples, he surges into the human’s mind, scanning through the events of the last few days. 

_The arrival of the TV- the woman without a face- calling the police- a man calling himself the Doctor, and a girl, Rose- arguments, humiliation- being thrown out, drinking his problems away, feeling so miserable and—_

The Master wrenches himself away before the emotions can overwhelm him. Aliens, in his corner of London, and he hadn’t even noticed. He’s been lying in bed for too long- if he’d paid attention, maybe he’d have seen something. Maybe he’d have noticed the Doctor, maybe he could have begged a ride to 2020, or stolen his TARDIS, or something. _Anything_ , before the crisis was over and he went away again. 

But he was too caught up in his own misery to notice. He’s brought this on himself. _Just like always_. Poking in the wrong places, making deals with the wrong people, ignoring things he shouldn’t. It’s his fault, always his fault. 

He braces his hands on the cool ground, breathing hard. The man- Eddie, the Master now knows from the tangled inside of his mind- is curled up in a ball, groaning. He’ll have a headache for the next week, at least. And it seems like he deserves it, based on the contents of his thoughts. 

Shivering, the Master wonders what would have happened if he’d actually seen the Doctor. If he could have held back from punching him in the face, or screaming at him, or breaking down in tears and begging forgiveness. 

He pictures himself on his knees before her current body, wonders if she’d show mercy. Wonders what mercy would even look like, for her. A swift death? Lifelong imprisonment? Maybe any of that would be better than this cruel abandonment. That vindictive, glittering smile still hurts to think about. 

There’s a part of him that still, even now, longs to earn a softer, brighter smile. A smile like the ones that the Doctor had given to O. Genuine. _Happy_. Nearly two dozen lifetimes of loving her are hard to shake, even in the face of everything he knows about her now. 

The Master is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Eddie getting shakily to his feet, stumbling on the spot. 

“ _Freak_ ,” he hisses. “You’re not natural. None of your kind- don’t bloody know _what_ you are, but I’m reporting you to the police!” 

Feeling too numb to really care, the Master glares at him. “Go on, then. You do that. Tell the police that I invaded your mind and went through your thoughts. I’m sure they could use a laugh.” 

There’s no response to that, so he closes his eyes again, listening to heavy human footsteps stumbling away up the street. The cobbles are warm under the palms of his hands, and the sun is properly streaming down onto his eyelids. It’s a nice day, the streets are still quiet, and he feels like the universe has betrayed him, somehow. 

It’s not _fair_. To be stuck on Earth for so long, with so much longer still to go, and for interesting things to happen right on his doorstep without his awareness. For the Doctor to be here, and for him not to know a thing about it. He feels like he should have sensed something, should have been able to guess at _some_ point during the last forty-eight hours that the only person he’d ever truly loved was right under his nose. 

This is cruel, the Master thinks. And he knows that he’s doing it to himself. Living in London, right at the heart of the Doctor’s favourite country. He’s just asking for things like this to happen. Or worse, he’s asking to actually run into the Doctor. That would probably be even worse. 

Maybe it’s time to move. 

Pushing himself up off of the pavement, the Master sighs, turning to walk back to that dingy little flat he hates to call his own. He could try India- oh, but he’d have to learn more languages, and deal with monsoon season, and he’s really _never_ in the mood for constant rain. Perhaps America. It’s been a _very_ long time since he was last there. New York’s a funny place for time travellers in the twentieth century; maybe he can avoid the Doctor altogether if he goes there. 

It’ll be like ripping off a plaster. Stop living here in London, hanging around in the vain, vague hope that he might somehow be able to scrounge a trip back to 2020. Give up on that dream, and maybe life on Earth will stop crawling by at a snail’s pace. 

It’s a weird thing, to have hope. The Master puts it down to the bright sun and the quiet streets, but- just for a minute, the boiling, miserable anger seems to quieten. A few years without the Doctor. Living his own life, somewhere he won’t be recognised or bothered. He breathes in the cool morning air, lets it out again slowly. 

Sixty eight more years. He can do this. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this one! comments and kudos are very very much appreciated <3


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